


Vile

by SmutPrince



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, No beta we die like mne, drunken canon typical violence mixed with also canon typical sexual tension, none of this shit makes sense but my dick hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutPrince/pseuds/SmutPrince
Summary: A drunken, unpleasantly horny encounter between Thomas and Tommy following Tommy's drunken confession about the real Ephriam Winslow.
Relationships: Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69





	Vile

It’s when he’s drunk and bleary that Tommy lets slip his true identity and the fate of the real Ephraim Winslow. Thomas doesn’t respond right away, and when he doesn’t, Tommy turns his head towards the door, feeling like his eyeballs are floating in kerosene and whatever leftover booze they had still laying around the island. He sees the barest tail end of Thomas descending the stairs, his shadow briefly visible as he walks in the shine of the downstairs lantern. Slowly panicked, Tommy stumbles forward, failing to rise on unsteady feet, instead opting to crawl frantically towards the stairs, scooting onto his butt as he attempts to descend them in his drunken stupor, and crying out, his voice a little more frail than he would ever admit a bit soberer. “Thomas!”

His throat is hoarse from the harsh lantern fuel and thick with fear when Thomas doesn’t respond. Tommy makes it halfway down the steps on his ass before he loses footing and just slides down, cursing drunkenly as he hits the bottom floor. Tommy is too busy rubbing the back of his head, wincing and moaning in frustrated pain, to notice Thomas sitting against a nearby wall, below the window, drinking from the bottle of poison and booze. Thomas, tight lips curling in something caught between disgust and annoyance, says nothing, taking another painful swig from the bottle.

When he remembers what he was going downstairs for, Tommy makes out Thomas through the harsh haze behind his eyes. “T..Thomas!” Tommy begins to make his way over to the elder Wickie, motions frantic but slowed from his week-long binge drinking, all flailing arms and half-numb legs. Thomas’s eyes go wide, but his expression does not otherwise change, he just watches as Tommy crawls towards him, looking both desperate and deranged. He shifts his feet away from Tommy’s outstretched hands, drawing his knees up to escape him, but there’s no room for him to really escape, nowhere on the island to hide, save his lighthouse. Thomas’s right hand idly brushes the lighthouse key between grubby fingers, unsure if Tommy’s inebriated state gives him enough of an advantage with his missing leg to escape to his light.

Too little, too late; Tommy is already on him, hands gripping not with anger but with desperation, with need, and even though it’s frighteningly tight, it’s clear there’s no malice behind it. “Y’ don’t just leave me, Tom, y’don’t leave me like that!” Tommy isn’t making much sense, and there are some tears again, just a few, and Thomas scowls hard now. “Ye just went and spilled yer beans to me, idiot boy. I told y’, I TOLD y’!” Thomas feels his tongue slovenly forming words through a thick accent and heavy liquor, and his physical disadvantage on Tommy seems exacerbated at the moment. He pushes his hand, the left one not holding to the key in his pocket, against Tommy’s face, mushing his cheek, but Tommy just keeps pushing forward, turning his face into Thomas’s palm. He’s so much stronger, even without trying. The thought terrifies Thomas. “I didn’t mean to! I din’t move, I froze, I couldnta …. ‘m a good man, Tom, just as good as any other!” Tommy begins babbling, messy crying into Thomas’s hand, words muffled and slurred, wet and raw.

“Get ahold of y’self!” Thomas yelled, voice sharp with anger, deep with authority, desperate to trick the younger into thinking he’s the one in control. “Yer makin’ a damn fool of y’self! Acting more of a woman than a man!” Thomas considers picking up the bottle again to swat at Tommy, make his escape when he’s either unconscious or at least staggered, but then Tommy calms slightly, and Thomas can catch the slightest sensation of wetness beyond tears on his palm. Before Tom can get a word out, Tommy shifts just enough so that his eye is visible, bloodshot, bloated -- and hazy in a way Thomas doesn’t like. “I can prove it….” he murmurs, and the wetness returns, and it’s very clear now that it’s Tommy’s tongue and lips, and there’s heady heat accompanying the wetness, right against his palm, and Thomas feels his lower stomach ache and burn at the sight, for all its grotesqueness.

“What would that prove, eh?” Thomas asks, trying to bring the stern anger from before, but feeling it lacked as much conviction. It was hard to focus, with a pretty man like Tommy sliding a silken pink tongue against his calloused hand, looking a desperate kind of debauched. It’s hard for Thomas to resist pushing a thumb into his mouth, feel what other soft and warm sensations the younger can offer. “That I’m right? Just like a woman?” Tommy lets out a soft huff in frustration, and pushes Thomas’s hand away with a swat, eyes set and leaking still. “I’m not gonna let y’ jus’ leave. I’ll m-make you stay.” 

Tommy moves forward like rushing water, and Thomas can’t tell if it’s the violent waves or the heavy rain but there’s a roaring in his ears as Tommy plants a solid, wet mouth onto his own. 

Whatever notion of softness Thomas had of Tommy's mouth is quickly squashed as teeth clink and scrape, and the thick stubble of Tommy's beard scrapes past his own, irritating his skin as it rubs him raw like sandpaper. He tries to pull back, to breathe, but Tommy whines in the back of his throat and it warps into a growl after the third attempt to withdraw, and then there's a workman's hand on the back of his neck, fisting his hair and pushing him impossibly closer. It's not until Thomas starts to feel so air deprived he feels the room spin even faster that Tommy withdraws, mouth wet with blood from their collision; his own or Thomas's, he’s unsure. Probably a bit of both.

With his face flush and his mouth slick with spit and blood, Tommy looks the most beastly Thomas has seen him yet. He’s panting, a calloused hand still keeping Thomas from escaping. Though if he were being honest with himself, Thomas doesn’t think he’d try running right now. His cock stirs against his pant leg, and he feels his thighs flex, old bones aching, as the slightest shift puts even more pressure on it. Tommy doesn’t miss it. Doesn’t miss a thing, eyes as bright as the light of the island, cutting through any mist. Thomas can’t escape his sight, and the thought curdles his stomach. It’s unrelenting, Tommy’s gaze. He’s unfairly pretty, even as battered and wild as he is. It makes Thomas sick with envy, sick with lust.

“Y’ just gonna stare, lad?” Thomas finds his voice trapped deep in his throat, and Tommy’s heavy-lidded eyes sink deeper. “You not grateful, old man?” Tommy’s voice is low again, dangerously, and Thomas stiffens again, in cock and body. “Disgusting, vile old urchin. You reek of piss and that rotted cock, that pathetic, atrophied cock.” Tommy presses an angry hand against Thomas’s crotch, and the old man hisses, hips caught between wanting to pull away or press forward. Tommy’s palm presses down and circles, and he barks a laugh when Thomas lets out a grunt. “You should be thanking your gods and your devils for this,” he continues, the hand on the back of Thomas’s neck pulling, yanking at his hair, tilting Thomas's head back enough to expose his neck. “Thankin' them from now on 'til the rest of your days that I give your dick even this." Tommy punctuates this with a firmer, slower grind of his open hand.

Thomas chokes, sputters, his hips jerking just as his self-control starts slipping further away; he can feel the aged wood give to their combined weight, can hear the house groan with him. Tommy looks rabid, and his fingers start to press more directly onto his elder’s cock. His thumb drawing a small circle on the ridge of Thomas’s cock head. Thomas’s mind reels, he feels the ocean in his head swaying, sloshing, and for all his bluster of Tommy’s place as his employee, his inferior, he begins to beg; and he begs well. He’s all whimpers and whispered swears, pleading eyes and greedy, greedy hands. His fingers find their way up to Tommy’s face, his jawline, and Thomas combs through grease, salted hair, his ass leaving the ground every so often when he tries to chase Tommy’s hand.

It feels like the sweetest hell when he finally cums. Thomas babbles wetly before he lurches forward, fingers digging into the straps of Tommy’s suspenders, worked dry into his britches. Thomas isn’t given a moment's rest before Tommy pushes him onto his back, propping him just barely on his shoulder blades against the stone wall. Thomas makes a cry of protest which is immediately silenced by Tommy’s snarling, the hand he used to jerk Thomas off desperately beating his own cock, his face so red Thomas swears he looks like the devil himself. Tommy starts fondling Thomas through his shirt, effectively pinning him and getting a grip on the small amount of fat and muscle that passes for a pec.

Legs spread further than they ought to be at his age, Thomas can only watch in horrified lust as Tommy ruts into his hand, the slap of skin sounding sick in his post-orgasm haze. Tommy lets out a final long grunt before he cums, streaking the front of Thomas’s shirt, the hand on his chest tightening as he shakes. When he remembers to breathe again, remembers how to be human, Tommy pulls back to his haunches, his dick softening and wet, and breathes slowly. His eyes seem foggy, floating when Thomas meets them. The two sit there in silence for a moment, the air thick with their violence and the hot air of the ongoing storm. It’s Thomas, always Thomas, to break the silence; and when he does, the air shifts again, and Tommy feels the room tilt.

“Why’d ye have to go and spill yer beans, lad?”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't have any plans for this fic I just started throwing spaghetti at the wall please forgive me.


End file.
